


Companion's Choice

by voksen



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Drabble Sequence, Gen, Kink Meme, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 14:16:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five drabbles in which Grantaire does not get Chosen.</p><p>(And five where Javert does.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carmarthen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/gifts).



No one had been surprised when a Companion came for Enjolras, all dolled up in silver-and-blue, tack-bells ringing with every step, coat gleaming like sun on snow. "This won't change us," he had said, stopping with one foot in the stirrup to look back at them as they piled out of the tavern to watch him go.

The Companion had looked at them too, a calmly assessing gaze, and Grantaire had felt familiarly judged-and-found-lacking. The others had left their mugs inside; he had not, and drank again as it watched.

Its eyes were the same harsh blue as its rider's.

 

* * *

 

It changed them. Of course it did; how could it not? Perhaps they were all as equal as Enjolras had insisted (though Grantaire would never believe it); perhaps Combeferre was the hide that held them together and Courfeyrac their breath and Grantaire himself the sharp edge of the tongue, but Enjolras had been the heart and soul. Without him the meetings were dull; Grantaire came out of habit but only sat and drank as the others spoke of improvements here and struggles there and the need for this and that. Without Enjolras to give it life, what did he care?

 

* * *

 

He came back occasionally, just often enough that they didn't fall apart altogether, but he was different. Even before, he hadn't had much time for anything but Queen and country; now there was nothing else. Enjolras was being stripped down like an oversharpened blade: keen as thin ice and probably as easy to break.

It suited him, though; he stood there in his new Herald's Whites, discussing the location of a new - public - Collegium and looking like a young godling surrounded by mismatched priests. Grantaire wondered, from his now-customary spot on the floor, that the others didn't seem to notice.

 

* * *

 

After that visit Enjolras was gone for the better part of a year; "Riding circuit," Bahorel informed them all, still a bit puffed up from his latest visit to the Court, where he'd convinced a young nobleman to attend the meeting.

"Think of what he'll accomplish outside Haven," Feuilly said. "Reform will spread through all of Valdemar."

And life went on, more or less. Eventually they all stopped listening for the silver ring of Companions' hooves on the cobbled street outside the Musain; eventually Marius took up Grantaire's old seat at the table and began to bring his fiancee along.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire had long since retired to the alley; at the sound of unhorselike hoofbeats he looked up blearily into a piercing, accusing gaze.

_:You could be more than this,:_ the Companion told him flatly. _:You could have been Chosen, if--:_

Grantaire laughed, choked, laughed again. Its disapproving snort was uncannily like Enjolras's.

He closed his eyes. It shut out the painfully-bright Companion, but not his Sight. Not even the wine kept that at bay any longer; his nights and days alike were drenched unpredictably with color: blood over horsehide, then black oblivion.

"You'll be the death of him," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

The river was not really all that deep, despite the storm of the night before that had kept the Army off Javert's heels. That was all right; it was fast and rocky, full of treacherous-looking rapids, and the bluff he stood on was tall enough that it should do for him.  
  
He stripped off his coat - he certainly had no business wearing it anymore - and turned to unsaddle his horse; there was no need for him to suffer for Javert's sins.  
  
Gymont hooked his nose over Javert's shoulder. _:I'm not going to let you jump, you know_ :  
  
"What," Javert said.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
His head ached. He had _thought_ it had hurt before, but now - now, it was as if a stampede of demons had been using it as a salle. How much of that was that his horse insisted on talking in his head, Javert didn't know, but he was sure it wasn't _helping_.  
  
 _:I'm not a horse:_ the horse reminded him. _:Or a demon.:_  
  
So far, they had established both that and the fact that Javert was not (yet) dead and in hell with this for a punishment.  
  
 _:Please,:_ Gymont said. His nose was as soft as ever against Javert's cheek.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
By the time they crossed into Valdemar, the dye had worn off Gymont's coat in large splotches, revealing silver under the once-familiar dark bay. It was unsettling, seeing the truth out itself like that, but Javert had been _unsettled_ ever since he'd let that man go instead of condemning him to the Fires. He was - he dared say - almost getting used to it.  
  
He was also - privately - getting used to the idea that aching gap inside him that had once been occupied by _law_ was now, unaccountably, unbelievably being filled by a - a _nag_.  
  
 _:I heard that._ :  
  
"You did not."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Javert sat back hard in the saddle; Gymont obligingly stopped neatly in his tracks.  
  
"No," he said.  
  
 _:No?:_  
  
"We're going back."  
  
 _:To the_ river _?:_  
  
Irritatingly, he couldn't answer that; the thought of death was as impossible now as the thought of destroying an innocent man's life had been before. To do that to Gymont - no. Never. But this-- Javert shook his head. Grand marble buildings, people scurrying about - _young_ people, a quarter his age.  
  
His hair was patchy-gray - like Gymont's, before the dye had faded. Wouldn't he look a right fool?  
  
"Do I look like a schoolboy to you, horse?"  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
They went on anyway; Javert had never found it easy to stray from a path once he'd set foot on it. If keeping Gymont at his side and in his soul meant he had to live, then he would live; if it meant he had to become a demon-rider ( _:Herald!:_ ) then he would do that.  
  
It was strange, though, that they would want someone like him upholding their laws; an outsider and a traitor to his own.  
  
 _:The law is a sword to be wielded,:_ Gymont said. _:Mercifully, by the right hands.:_  
  
"Hm," Javert said, and left it at that.


End file.
